


Team

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Locker Room, M/M, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Verbal Humiliation, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco hates Potter for no particular reason, and that works out rather well for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Team

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kedavranox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedavranox/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This isn’t properly British. Gift for Kedavranox.

Draco joined this school specifically for the swim team; they win every tournament they enter. Draco didn’t need a scholarship or any athletic allowance; he paid the full amount, and his father practically bought the entirety of the domed, indoor pool, twice the size of what it used to be. By all rights, Draco should be the star player, the one who makes people’s heads swivel around just for a glimpse for him.

Yet somehow, the scruffy-haired, fool-hardy, scar-headed boy in front of him gets all the attention, and when the third last person leaves the locker room, he calls, “See yah tomorrow, Potter!” ...As if Draco isn’t even there.

Draco tells himself he doesn’t care. Because Diggory’s an idiot, and who cares what he thinks? Just because Potter was in a car accident as a child and now has a stupid lighting bolt on his forehead doesn’t make him a badass. Just because he pulled a professor out of the library when it caught on fire last year doesn’t make him a hero. So what if he made the swim team before Draco and was the first freshman to do so in a decade? So what if he’s the star player? He hasn’t got any money, and he’s friends with complete idiots, and just because he happens to look absolutely delectable in his speedo and apparently has the biggest dick this side of—

Draco cuts himself off, gulping. He heard that rumour last week and has had a particularly hard time getting it out of his head, for reasons he doesn’t even want to attempt to fathom. Draco knows he’s gay, even if he isn’t stupid enough to tell anyone. But Potter’s supposedly straight, and besides, Draco’s ridiculously out of his league, anyway, no matter what the general populous might have to say about it. 

Potter’s locker slams closed. He doesn’t say bye to Draco, because they’re not like that, and he struts out of the change room, shirtless. His loose jeans are low down his hips, the tip of the speedo peeking over it, making Draco’s traitorous mouth water. He watches Potter disappear around the corner with equal parts hatred and lust, wondering why he ever wanted to come to this stupid school. 

Draco’s still in his bathing suit. He’s dried off and is combing his hair—it takes him forever to get ready. Probably because he keeps stopping to daydream. He jumps when he hears Potter grunt, “Shit!” somewhere in the background.

Draco tosses his comb back into his locker just as Potter storms back around the corner, grumbling, “The lock’s stuck!”

Draco snorts. “Jiggle the handle, you idiot.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “I kicked it and everything.”

“What’d you do that for? You probably made it worse.”

Potter frowns. Draco scowls and closes his locker, strolling past Potter. He walks over to the exit and grabs the handle—the door stubbornly doesn’t move. 

Draco frowns at it, making a mental note to tell his father about this. The door doesn’t seem impressed. When he glares over his shoulder, Potter’s standing there. “Told you. ...I guess we’ll just have to wait for the janitor to get here.”

Flushing furiously, Draco practically splutters, “I’m not staying in here!” Not with a half-naked Potter, anyway, not when it’s hard enough to keep his eyes up during practice. There’s a smattering of dark hair at the bottom of Potter’s stomach that dips below the hem of his jeans, and Draco is trying really, really hard not to stare at the bulge in them. Is it as big as they say, really? If he gets stuck alone with Potter for more than a few minutes, his horrible hormones might try to find out. 

Potter just shakes his head and walks back around to the lockers. Draco follows, drawling, “Where’re you going?”

Potter abruptly shoves his jeans down, revealing his strong legs and his tight speedo. Even dry, it clings to his package, and Draco tries to look away. It’s bad enough that Potter’s got a six-pack and a pension for not wearing a shirt, without him strutting around like... this. Draco feels like somebody up there is testing him, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to fail at not looking. 

Looking over, Potter shrugs. “We might as well go in again.”

“We’ll turn into prunes.” Draco wrinkles his nose and subconsciously steps closer. Then he does it again, until he’s standing right next to Potter’s locker. Potter’s shoving his pants inside, and Draco leans casually against the metal, as though they’re just chatting and this is all perfectly normal. Trying his best to sound condescending, Draco says, “You know we’re not supposed to go in without the coach—heaven forbid you hit your fat head and drown.”

“So you can pull me out. I’m sure even you can figure out mouth-to-mouth.” Potter slams the locker closed, looking straight at Draco, who realizes belatedly that he’s standing too close.

Draco’s also blushing in spite of himself, because, if he’s not mistaken, Potter just suggested they lock lips. Trying to look offended rather than horny, Draco sneers, “Bet you’d like that, you fag.”

“Pfft. You’re one to talk, Malfoy.”

“Shut up!” Draco’s stance has gone from casual to tense in a heartbeat, his cheeks from pale to red. He doesn’t want to admit how on the head Potter’s hit it. He’s running adrenaline now, with no control over his words, like every time they ever ‘talk.’ “You _wish_.” 

Potter smirks like it’s all going according to plan, and what he says makes Draco’s eyes grow to saucers. “I think it’s the other way around, Malfoy. Or do you really believe I’m too stupid to notice the way you look at me?”

There’s a pause in which Draco’s a frozen statue, disbelieving. He fights with Potter all the time, but they’re not usually alone like this, and he didn’t think he’d actually get caught.

“I don’t—”

“Oh yes, you do.” Something’s changed—the final straw in their always-close-to-breaking dynamic.

Potter takes a step closer—it’s like something out of one of Draco’s fantasies, except it’s _real_ , and he stumbles backwards. But Potter turns, and that leaves Draco nowhere to run; Potter backs him into the lockers. The metal’s cold against his bare skin, and Potter continues, close enough to make Draco shiver, “You know, I actually used to wonder why you’d always go out of your way to be such a dick to me. At first I thought it was just jealousy, since it’s obvious I’m better than you at just about everything, and unlike whatever idiots you went to high school with, no one gives a shit here about what your daddy can buy you. But then I realized it’s more than that. You haven’t gotten off my back since I turned you down in first year. If I’d really known _how_ you wanted to be on me, you might’ve gotten another answer...”

Draco’s breath hitches as Potter talks, his brain still reeling to catch up. Potter’s now looming over him, one hand to either side of Draco’s head, pinning him against the lockers like some high school girl. It takes Draco a second to really process what’s happening—that Potter’s offering ‘another’ answer. 

But the world doesn’t work that way, and Draco opens his dry mouth to say, “You’re off your rocker, I didn’t—”

He cuts off mid-sentence to gasp. Potter’s arched forward just enough for their hips to brush, for Potter’s bathing suit to nudge into his, for him to _feel_ what those rumours are really about. Worry races through Draco’s mind—maybe Potter’s heard rumours about him. Draco’s always been careful to shut everyone up, but what if someone told...

Potter tilts his head to the side of Draco’s—Draco scrunches his eyes closed and lowers his chin, ashamed of the way his body reacts. Potter hisses in his ear, “Do you even like to swim, or did you just want to see if what they say is true about my cock?”

Draco audibly swallows before managing, “F-fuck off...”

Potter pulls back just enough to dive in again, smashing his lips into Draco’s. Draco opens his lips out of pure shock, skull banging into the metal behind him. He lifts his hands, maybe to push Potter away maybe to _pull him closer_ , but Potter grabs his wrists and slams them against the locker like it’s nothing. Potter forces his tongue into Draco’s mouth, and Draco can’t help it, his cock twitches against Potter’s, filling despite everything that’s wrong.

Potter must realize, because he grinds his hips into Draco’s, making Draco moan into Potter’s mouth and want to writhe. Potter kisses like a sex god, devouring Draco’s mouth and exploring every part. He tastes like cheap coffee. His skin is inordinately warm, and he has Draco kissing back in a matter of seconds. Draco’s ashamed of himself. He feels like he’s betrayed what few ideals he has. But he can’t _help_ it; he’s always _easy_ when it really comes down to it, and he’s always been drawn to power, and Potter seems to know it all and work it easy against him. 

When Potter pulls back, Draco desperately tries to follow. Potter leans away with a smirk, and before Draco can protest, he grabs Draco’s shoulders and turns him roughly around against the locker. Draco braces himself against it, head swimming. He looks over his shoulder, and Potter flattens against him, broad hands running down his lithe sides. “We should have at least half an hour before the janitor gets here,” Potter purrs, in a thick voice that almost makes Draco melt. “Plenty of time to live out one of your fantasies, _fag_.”

Draco winces but can’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say. He wants to yell his head off at Potter, taunt him and hate him and hit him. But then this might end, and Draco doesn’t want that any more. Scrunching his eyes together, he turns back to the locker, pressing his forehead against it. Fuck. He has no idea what to do, and in the absence of his suggestions, Potter’s thumbs hook in the waistband of his swim trunks.

Draco instantly jerks away, head whirling, but Potter when arches back to let him, Draco doesn’t actually go anywhere. Trying to sound more menacing than he feels, Draco growls, “Don’t you fucking dare—”

But he doesn’t get anywhere, just leans traitorously back into Potter’s hands, and Potter gets the hint. He pulls them right down, tugging them right over Draco’s ass, cutting across his cheeks and making him shiver. Potter scrunches them all the way down, until his cock is bobbing against his stomach and his balls are cradled in the swimsuit. Potter’s hands are all over his ass cheeks in a second, kneading them and playing with them, squishing them and pulling them apart. Draco can’t help himself; he moans. He isn’t embarrassed about his ass in Potter’s hands—he knows he’s got a great ass, and he’s more than happy to show it off. But he’s embarrassed because it’s fucking _Potter_ , and Draco shouldn’t be this weak...

All thoughts of that go out the window as soon as he feels Potter pulling back, and he peers back to see Potter stepping out of his speedo. A lump grows in Draco’s throat, and he _stares_ like his eyelids are broken. 

Even when Potter catches his expression, Draco can’t look away. Potter chuckles darkly at him; Draco just licks his lips. Potter definitely lives up to the rumours. He’s easily got the biggest cock Draco’s ever seen in person, maybe even in porn. It juts out from his hips proudly, fully hard, arching slightly and dark with need. The mushroom head is already sporting a single bead of precum, and veins twist all down the shaft—it looks like Potter’s cock has been doing pushups. His balls are equally as well proportioned, pert and hanging under the set of dark curls. How Potter manages to stay confined to such small swimsuits, Draco has no idea. 

Once, Draco wondered if maybe he could like someone for their personality, and not give a shit about how big they were. ...He promptly got over that though, and this is proof. Draco can’t imagine being anything but a size queen. He wonders vaguely if it’s wise to be doing this—after he has that monster inside him, how is he ever going to go back to regular sex with normal people?

And he is _definitely_ going to have that inside him. Even if Potter didn’t look like a feral beast right now, Draco would be virtually insisting. Not wanting to ruin the moment, Draco decides he’ll just have to insist on other times, too, so he won’t have to face the moving on problem. ...Once Potter realizes how amazing Draco is in bed, he’s obviously not going to want to leave, either. 

Potter leans forward to slap Draco’s ass with his cock; Draco moans and leans back into it. Potter does it again and chuckles, and he reaches over for his locker while he grinds in between Draco’s cheeks. Draco reaches back to hold them closed around Potter, which is a difficult task. Potter’s absurdly thick and almost painfully hard—they’re definitely going to need lube for this. 

He’s ecstatic when Potter pulls out just that, closing the locker again afterwards. Why Potter has a jar of lube floating around his locker, Draco doesn’t have the wherewithal right now to guess. Instead, he just moans as Potter pours an ample amount into his palm. Draco watches rapturously as he slicks up his cock. Draco’s hands itch against the locker; he should be doing that. He opens his mouth to say so, but then Potter’s fingers are slipping back to his ass and words fail him. Instead, Potter says, “Knew you just wanted my cock, you little bitch... should’ve just asked, ‘stead of following me around like a whiny puppy...”

Draco whimpers before he can stop it. He doesn’t have any regrets, not now. If he could do it all over again, he’d still treat Potter like dirt, because now he knows it’s leading up to this, even if it won’t be sweet. He doesn’t want dinner first, anyway. He doesn’t need nice dates or to be treated right. He doesn’t even care that they’re not facing each other, that he has to keep craning his neck to look at Potter. He just wants that big cock inside him, as soon as possible, and he’ll like it rough. His fantasies of Potter are rarely romantic; they’re harsh and brutal, a passionate firestorm, just like everything is with them. 

Potter doesn’t tease Draco’s hole properly. He just shoves a finger right in, enough to tear. Draco grunts, and his shoulders hunch, and Potter doesn’t stop for him to adjust. That finger climbs higher, higher, parting Draco’s walls and spreading him open, all the way into the knuckle, coated in lube and still oddly unforgiving. Then it pulls out to the tip, and a second finger joins it, just as blunt and just as wet. Potter pistons them both inside and starts to scissor him apart, and it feels wrong and uncomfortable. 

And that helps wear the spell off, so Draco can demand, “Touch me.” He knows it’ll just take the mere sight of Potter’s hand on his cock to get him fully hard again. 

But Potter growls, “You gave up that right when you made that crack about my parents last week.”

Draco frowns. He doesn’t regret his words for a second, but that doesn’t make him any less furious. A third finger’s in before he can really process it though, and then they’re all slipping out, and not going back in—Draco wants to demand to know what Potter’s thinking. He’s going to need the whole hand—maybe a full fist—to take Potter properly. Some big shot. He obviously doesn’t know anything about se—

“AH!” Draco’s physically shoved into the locker when Potter stabs into him—the metal grunts, and Draco shrieks louder, mouth hung open and fingers clawing into his own palms. His elbows hit hard enough to bruise, and his cock’s pressed painfully into the locker. Potter doesn’t stop for a second. He slides in way too fast, and even with the lube, it’s not at all enough—Draco feels like he’s being torn apart. But the air’s being ripped out of his lungs, so he can’t say anything. 

Potter hisses, “Yeah,” over his shoulder. “You’re so fucking tight, Malfoy...”

Draco’s heard that before, but in this case, he’s pretty sure Potter’s just _huge_. He goes farther up Draco’s ass than anything else ever has, even Draco’s toys. It’s thicker than any of Draco’s toys. He feels like it’s going to bulge out against his stomach, like when Potter comes it’ll burst him apart. Fuck. Potter isn’t even wearing a condom. It makes Draco shiver—he feels _dirty_. He tries to tell himself Potter won’t have any diseases; he’s the fucking golden boy... but there’s no way to know, and now it’s too late. Draco can feel the coarse hair against his ass when Potter gets all the way in, Potter’s balls slapping into his cheeks.

Then Potter’s out again, and even though it hurt to have him in, Draco whines at having him leave. He clenches around Potter’s cock and it burns, and Draco wonders distantly if he’s bleeding. He’s never bled during sex before, but then, he’s never been ridden bareback by someone hung like a horse. Potter gets out to the tip and slams brutally back inside, knocking Draco forward again. 

He grips Draco’s hips hard enough to leave marks, and he picks up a heavy pace, humping Draco like a dog. Draco feels like he’s being truly ravished, and the locker room fills with the sounds of slapping skin and metal grunting and heavy panting. When Potter leans forward to lick Draco’s neck, Draco’s in heaven. He arches his head aside and moans, and Potter nibbles and sucks a trail down to his shoulder. Draco will have some explaining to do when he gets home. He’ll probably have to wear turtlenecks for a week, and lie to the swim-team about some new girlfriend. Or maybe he’ll just have to skip school, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to walk after this, let alone swim...

Draco’s knees want to buckle. Potter fucks harder than anyone else Draco’s ever had, vicious and relentless, and then his hands start moving. He touches every part of Draco, running up Draco’s taut chest, squeezing his nipples, scratching his thighs. Potter won’t touch his cock though, and when Draco tries, Potter grabs both of his wrists and pins them up again, holding him still. Potter bites the shell of Draco’s ear and growls, “You don’t deserve to touch yourself.”

Draco means to say, ‘fuck you,’ but only manages, “F-fuck...”

Potter isn’t even trying to hit his prostate. As soon as it happens, probably by accident, Draco screams like a banshee, arching back and pressing into it, and Potter pauses his hips to grind hard into that spot, muttering, “Yeah, take it, Malfoy. You like that, don’t you...”

Draco’s whole body is on fire. His skin is tingling with the pleasure, and it more than drowns out the pain of being stretched too wide. Then Potter thrusts into it again, and Draco’s just as loud. Potter must love that, because he keeps hitting the right spot, again and again. Draco’s hard again in no time, and it’s torture not to be touched. But it’s also heaven. If this is Potter’s idea of a punishment for Draco picking on him, it isn’t very effective.

Because if this is what Draco gets for being a bitch, he’s never going to leave Potter alone. It’s too amazing. Even with his cock untouched, Draco can feel it coming. He wants to stop it—wants this to go on forever, but his body doesn’t get that—his balls start to tighten, his stomach clenching. The orgasm rips through him like a heat wave, and then he’s shooting thick spurts of cum all over the locker. He screams, “Harry!” and _hates_ himself for it.

His ass clenches around Potter’s cock as it all pours out, and Potter bites hard into his shoulder. A minute later, Potter follows, lurching forward to grind Draco into the locker, exploding inside his ass. Draco only screams louder. If Potter weren’t pinning him firmly up, he’d be on the ground in seconds. 

Then Potter pulls out, suddenly and inexplicably, and Draco topples to the floor. He leans against the locker, sweat slicked and breathing heavy, and he looks up at Potter with wide, dilated eyes. Potter’s spent cock hangs right out at face-level. It’s sticky with cum and lube and still tremendously hard. 

It takes him a second to be able to look up at Potter’s face, which is flushed and half-lidded, lust-clouded and confused. Draco’s eyebrows knit together; he needed Potter to explain what the fuck this was—what this changes, what this makes them. But Potter looks as lost as he does, and that’s mildly infuriating. 

Draco’s swim trunks are still down around his thighs. He can feel Potter’s cum trickling out of him, and he wonders belatedly if it’s ruining his swimsuit or not. It takes a second for Draco to manage, “You should’ve used a condom.”

Potter shrugs and opens his mouth. He doesn’t get to say anything.

The door jerks open in the background. They can both hear it, and they both go still as statues. In a flash, Potter darts to his locker, yanking out a towel and rushing to the floor, pulling the towel over both of their laps. Mr. Filch rounds the corner a second later, looking as irritated as he always does. 

“’Ey! What’re you two doing here?” He glares at them both, like it’s a sin for the swim team to use the pool. Why on Earth he chooses to work at a school when he clearly hates people is a mystery.

Immediately, Draco sneers, “My father practically paid for this whole building; I think I’m more than entitled to use it.”

Filch scowls. Then his eyes roam down, and his cheeks turn red—Draco follows his gaze and does the same. Potter’s speedo is draped across the bench in the middle of the room, and Draco realizes belatedly that there’s probably a rather obvious stain on the locker above his head.

Filch grumbles something intelligible and turns right around. He disappears faster than he came. Potter drops his head into his hands, and Draco stands up, because his ass is sore and sitting sucks. He takes Potter’s towel with him. He uses it to clean himself off, then drops it right back onto Potter, then tugs his trunks back up. He trails back to his locker, wincing with every step, and Potter has the nerve to call after him, “...I hope you learned a lesson.”

Draco jerks his locker open and peers around it, so he can call, “I am going to bug you every fucking day, scar-head.”

And he means it.


End file.
